


crushed by, filled with

by iceplanet



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Blood, M/M, vague allusions to past self-harm, vague mentions of past trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-16 20:49:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16961217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iceplanet/pseuds/iceplanet
Summary: After the events of episode 44, Fjord has much to consider.--His left hand has a cut across the palm. It sinks deep into the muscle, blood curling up from it in a slow-moving red tendril.LEARN. GROW. PROVOKE. CONSUME.ALLY.He looks directly into the eye on his left, holding his palm up to it. “You think this will be fruitful—”There’s a short burst of flame in the eye, reflected from a great distance.ALLY.The ocean stretches before him, the ships afloat as he’s seen before, and this time, as he brings his hand up to command the seas, the skies fill up whole with fire.





	crushed by, filled with

**Author's Note:**

> My internal monologue since episode 44 has been BLOOD PACT BLOOD PACT and I needed to get this out before episode 45 makes all of it irrelevant.
> 
> I've been listening to [this playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL1DbILyWFHP3EjY9ik2pfxgMYBAYT6Aop) on repeat while writing this. It's divided roughly into three acts: the first three songs are the buildup, the middle four are the climax, and the last three are the cooldown. If you're only going to listen to one song, though, I highly recommend [If I Had a Heart by Fever Ray](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yCzSarjjApQ&list=PL1DbILyWFHP3EjY9ik2pfxgMYBAYT6Aop&index=4&t=0s)

Breaking the surface, the light hits like a slap in the face, blinding him with the reflections off the water (curiously resistant to the touch). The urge to cough is there — he’s been submerged at great depths before, of course, and he remembers the pressure then was the same. Choking, suffocating, almost too much to bear. It takes him a second before he realizes the feeling, this time, isn’t in his lungs.

Squinting against the brightness, he glances around and inadvertently meets Caleb’s eyes. He’s caught and held, frozen for an instant: there’s something there he recognizes. Calculation, maybe, and a little bit of wild abandon. He can’t quite figure it out, and he’s opening his mouth to ask, when—

“Fjord?”

Jester, grabbing hold of his elbow. He looks down at her, sees question in her eyes, and he shakes himself. “Yeah. Yeah. Uh, thank you, Caduceus. That was certainly, uh, efficient.” 

“Oh, no problem. I just figured we’d been down there long enough.”

“Truer words.” He scans the horizon, ignoring Nott and Beau’s soft chatter in the background, Jester’s laughter at something Caduceus says. Their ship is not too far off, maybe a quarter mile, so he looks back around at the group to gauge the mood—

Caleb’s eyes are still on him, with that unknown expression. There’s a twinge of something in his chest, and his hand stings, suddenly, the seawater a caustic agent here in the light of day. _Blood rising, and then sinking—the glow tinting Caleb’s russet hair a deep, dark red—_ no. Back to the task at hand. He looks away, and calls out, “Back to the Squalleater? Or is there anything else—”

The words are barely out of his mouth before Nott streaks past him, a green blur beelining for the ship in the distance. Beau’s hot on her heels. He hears the laughter of the others as they break into a jog, and he follows suit, the images chased away for the moment. 

There’s a single white cloud in the blue-brass sky.

* * *

The familiar routine of setting sail goes as smoothly as possible, he supposes, given the relative inexperience of half his crew and the somewhat ramshackle quality of the rest. In the chaos, he can see brief glimpses of the rest of the Mighty Nein as they do their best to help get the ship ready to sail. Nott’s climbed up to the crows’ nest — “No water up here!” — and Beau’s tugging on a rope, helping Yasha and one or two of their hired crewmembers unfurl their one functional sail. Elsewhere, ropes are tightened, barrels and buckets are fastened down, the deck is swabbed. Jester rushes up to Marius, and Fjord smiles as she dances with joy, slipping the weasel back into her hood. 

At the edge of his awareness, Caleb and Orly are consulting the map and the sextant in the bow of the ship. A faint trickle of red runs down Fjord’s arm as he shouts instructions to the crew, and the memory of runes and blood in the lair prickles the hairs on the back of his neck. He keeps his distance without quite knowing why.

He doesn’t notice the clouds darkening in the sky until the first raindrop hits his palm, splashing directly into the cut. He stares at it for a second, and then turns to look at the storm gathering behind them. It’s strange, a storm rising out of nowhere like this—in fact, it seems highly localized, directly above the cavern they had explored but a few hours before—

“I think we have discovered the purpose of that ritual,” a voice says from behind.

He spins to find Caleb, leaning a barrel and watching him, his face unreadable. Fjord’s grasp on the helm tightens convulsively. A splinter digs into his palm. “You mean the storm—?”

“It was strong elemental magic.” Caleb spreads his hands in a shrug. He hasn’t bandaged the cut that matches Fjord’s, although the wrappings on his forearms are still there, streaked red. “Seeing that—” he nods toward the gathering grey “—come out of nowhere, it is easy to put two and two together, _ja_?”

“Yeah.” The thought of what might have happened to the ship had they completed the ritual sinks in his chest. An image of steel-grey sea rising up in enormous waves, tossing the Squalleater _(the Tide’s Breath)_ around like a toy in the hands of a giant, sends cold ice down his spine. “Yeah. Fuck. Shit. _Fuck._ ” His knees buckle, and he has to lean against the wheel. “Fuck,” he says again, temporarily incapable of anything more eloquent.

Caleb hums agreement, his head tipped to one side. “It would not have been good.” He sounds a lot calmer than Fjord feels.

“Did you know it would do…that?” He gestures wildly towards the darkened sky.

“I was not sure, no. I thought it might be a possibility.”

“Then why did you…” Fjord trails off, unable to finish the thought.

Tapping his lower lip, Caleb considers. “I was curious. _You_ were curious. I have said it already, _ja_? This is your quest. I am merely…hmm. Here to support.” He meets Fjord’s eyes, evenly, steadily, squinting steel-blue against the sun.

“ _Fuck_. Okay.” Fjord pushes away from the helm. “Next time you have a suspicion that something like that might fucking happen, you _tell_ me, okay? I’m not as smart as you are. I don’t always see the two and the two to add together.”

Caleb shrugs and turns away without speaking, making his way along the stern toward the steps that lead below the deck of the ship. 

Driven by some urge he’s not sure how to name, Fjord calls out after him. “Hey, you should get Jester or Caduceus to heal up that hand, bandage it or something. Before it scars.”

Caleb hesitates in his steps for an instant, glancing down at his palm. “ _Nein_ ,” he says slowly, almost to himself. “No, I think I would like a scar, this time.”

He watches as Caleb vanishes below deck without looking back.

* * *

 

_He’s back underwater, twisting slowly in the deep blue-green black depths. The pressure is almost overwhelming, squeezing his lungs as he desperately tries to hold his breath. He struggles against the crushing depths as bubbles escape his mouth—_

_And he’s breathing, in and out, the water viscous like blood in his lungs, utterly foreign. It feels, he thinks, like coming home._

_He’s never known what home is, aside from Vandren, and he didn’t know Vandren, in the end._

_The great yellow eye is there, watching, bathing him in its sickly light. It seems to be waiting for him to do…something. He’s not sure what._

_After what seems like eternities of silence, he says, experimentally, “Uka’toa?”_

_The great eye blinks. The great eyes blink. The great eyes blink, on his left and right, surrounding him, bathing him in yellow light. He looks down at himself and sees his naked body, the falchion in his right hand._

**HUNGER.**

_His left hand has a cut across the palm. It sinks deep into the muscle, blood curling up from it in a slow-moving red tendril._

**LEARN. GROW. PROVOKE. CONSUME.**

**ALLY.**

_He looks directly into the eye on his left, holding his palm up to it. “You think this will be fruitful—”_

_There’s a short burst of flame in the eye, reflected from a great distance._ **ALLY.** _The ocean stretches before him, the ships afloat as he’s seen before, and this time, as he brings his hand up to command the seas, the skies fill up whole with fire. It sheets down the ships’ sails, onto the masts, into the holds as they burst with the hidden gunpowder in their bellies. The sea itself turns the red-orange of the flames._

_The water around him swirls red, and the taste in his mouth is the taste of iron. The back of his throat and the pit of his stomach tighten with fear mixed with—he’s not sure what. An unfamiliar feeling sits low in his gut, roiling not unlike the flames consuming the ships’ sails._

_Blink._

_Blink._

_Blink, and now before him is a pair of familiar steel-blue eyes, regarding him steadily. The feeling in his gut intensifies, flaring into sharp peaks._  

**HUNGER.**

**POTENTIAL.**

He awakens, gasping in deep gulps of salt-tinged air, feeling the water in his mouth, in his lungs. He sputters, coughs.

That faint taste of iron is still there.

His sheet, soaked with sweat, is wrapped around him like a cocoon and streaked with red from where his unbandaged palm has split open again. He wrestles it off impatiently, leaving more red handprints, and lies panting in the darkness. Across the room, Caduceus breathes slowly and steadily. The sound grounds him, bringing his awareness back into his body. Gradually he realizes that his hand is stinging, his bladder is full, and—his dick is hard.

He grimaces at the inconvenience—the dream, clanging like steel against steel in his mind, chases away any desire for release—and reluctantly gets up, not bothering to pull on a shirt. Padding silently across the room so as not to wake Caduceus, he pulls the door open a crack and does a quick visual inspection of the hallway. Nothing looks out of place, and the ship seems quiet, so he stumbles, still half-asleep, towards the deck.

A years-old instinct drives him to the bow of the ship, where his back is against the wind, and he relieves himself over the side, leaning on the rail as the hardness slowly recedes. The sky is clear aside from the occasional lightning flash in the direction of the Diver’s Grave, and the stars are out in full force. It’s been years since he’s thought about the constellations and their symbolism. He wonders idly if any of them have ever been interpreted as Uka’toa.

The reminder of the dream makes him shiver in the night air.

He turns to retreat to the relative warmth and safety of his quarters. He’s just about to head below deck when he sees a figure leaning against the rail at the stern. Squinting his eyes, he can make out tangled, shoulder-length hair and a strange, shiny blob on one shoulder—ah. Caleb, gently stroking his octopus as he looks toward the distant storm. As Fjord walks closer, climbing the stairs to the deck, he notices that Caleb’s eyes are glowing faintly blue. He finds this faintly alarming until he realizes that he must be looking through Frumpkin’s eyes into the night.

“Ah, Fjord,” Caleb says. He’s still staring off into the middle distance, a look Fjord has seen a number of times but which never ceases to be somewhat uncanny. “My cat and I are enjoying the night air.”

“I see.” Fjord steps forward to lean on the railing next to Caleb, tentatively holding out a hand to the octopus. Frumpkin obligingly puts out a tentacle and wraps it momentarily around Fjord’s wrist in greeting. “Hmm. Caleb...can I ask you about something?” 

“Sure.” 

“You…you’re powerful. You seek power.”

Caleb shifts, his hand tightening around the octopus. “ _Ja_ , a little. I am not as powerful as my goblin friend thinks—”

“We’ve seen how powerful you are, Caleb, you don’t have to be modest about it.” He waves away Caleb’s objections. “Here’s what I’d like to know. How do you know what to do with it? Responsibly, I mean.” 

“I would not necessarily call my uses of power _responsible_ , but, you know, you measure what you can do against who you have to work with and then make a decision.” Fjord hums in vague assent, not entirely sure what Caleb means, and isn’t prepared for Caleb to turn his faintly glowing gaze on him. “What about you, though? You summoned a demon not long ago. You have, now, two orbs from this mysterious and very ancient entity. Would you not consider that powerful?”

“I mean, I guess,” Fjord says, nonplussed. “It wasn’t something I set out to look for.” 

Caleb turns back to the sea, staring out across the wine-dark expanse. Fjord almost misses his next words, spoken softly, as if to himself. “Yes. My dangerous friend.”

Silence stretches out between them, broken only by the waves against the side of the ship and the shifting of the octopus on Caleb’s shoulder. It’s not quite companionable. There’s an edge to it, one Fjord doesn’t know how to name.

He can’t rid himself of the sense that there’s a cliff, here; a tall one, with windswept grass and eagles’ cries. He’s not sure what’s at its base, or what will happen if he jumps off. What he does know is this: the edge is near, and once he takes the plunge, there’ll be no turning back. Testing, wanting to push on Caleb’s inscrutability, he asks, “What did you mean earlier? ‘I would like a scar this time’? Have there _been_ other times?” 

“Oh, well, you know,” Caleb says, keeping his voice carefully light. “There have been pacts in the past, _ja_ , and not all of them turned out…well.” He picks absently at the bandages wrapping his forearm. “Not all wounds are physical.”

“I know.” Fjord’s thoughts flash to Vandren, to that captain’s chamber, hidden forever beneath the waves. To Caleb, staring glassy-eyed at fire that had once been an ettin, a troll, a man. “Yeah, I’m familiar with that concept.” 

“ _Ja_. Well, I carry the marks of those also.” He looks up at Fjord. “I am hoping for a reminder, this time, of a promise. Perhaps then it will be easier to keep.”

Fjord holds up his own left palm, showing Caleb the still-unbandaged gash there.  “I’m real good at keeping promises.” 

Caleb’s eyes widen in surprise, and he leans forward into Fjord’s space. “May I?” Fjord nods, and Caleb reaches out to take Fjord’s hand, cradling it in his own cut palm and gently exploring the gash with his fingers. Fjord bites his lip, holds it there; the precipice is getting nearer, and Caleb’s gentle, searching touch explores the separated skin, evoking a sensation that’s pain mixed, just a little bit, with pleasure.

“I had Deuce look at the—” he hisses through his teeth as Caleb presses down into the cut itself, but doesn’t move “—the muscle, but a mark felt right.” 

“Caduceus. Not Jester?”

“Noo-oooo,” says Fjord, feeling a vague queasiness at that thought.

“Too many implications, perhaps.” Caleb looks up, face pale and pupils wide in the moonlight. 

**HUNGER** , says the voice of Uka’toa in the back of his mind—in his memory or in the moment, he’s not sure. He closes his eyes for a long moment, feeling the taste of iron in the water and the tightness reemerging in the back of his throat. His awareness narrows down into two sharp points: the air in his lungs and Caleb’s hands on his. The pulse flutters in Caleb’s wrist where he’s let it rest on Fjord’s fingers, matching the rush of blood in his ears.

Here’s the moment, he knows, feeling the weight in the pit of his stomach, in the tightening of his throat. He reopens his eyes, taking in Caleb’s faintly questioning expression, their hands cradled together between them, their blood mingling—again—on green skin and tan.

Sucking in a deep breath, he steps forward to the edge of the precipice and leaps.

At first, Caleb’s mouth is stiff against his, a murmur of surprise in his throat as his eyes widen and then relax, half-lidded. The octopus vanishes from Caleb’s shoulder with a soft _poof_ as he leans in, his cracked lips seeking out Fjord’s. His hand presses against Fjord’s bare chest, still slick with Fjord’s own blood. The fire from the dream ignites again in his gut and this time he knows what name to give it: Arousal. Lust. Desire.

( **HUNGER** , intones Uka’toa.)

He breaks away for an instant, gulping in the cool night air. Caleb, his own chest heaving, lips parted, watches him with wariness in his eyes. He’s left red streaks against Fjord’s skin; Fjord can feel them cooling rapidly, the sensation sending tingling chills.

“Fjord—”

He pushes forward again, pinning Caleb against the railing and nudging his leg between Caleb’s thighs. Their mouths crash together, Caleb breathing out an _ah—_ of anticipation. There’s a faint taste of gunpowder and salt-sweat-sea-storm, and as Fjord rocks their bodies together, he’s transported back to the deck of the Tide’s Breath, the waves and wind howling around him in that last storm. He whines involuntarily, and Caleb responds with his teeth bared, drawing blood that pools in Fjord’s mouth and runs down his throat. It’s intoxicating, this clash of body against body, and it’s all Fjord can do to keep from moaning as Caleb’s hand smooths its way along his belly, chasing the fire to the base of his slowly hardening cock.

He runs his tongue against Caleb’s teeth, tasting the iron of his own blood, and feels Caleb’s body react similarly to his own; along his thigh, he can feel the swelling of Caleb’s own cock. The distance between them, small as it is, suddenly feels like a vast gulf. The desire to close it, to meld flesh and spirit together into one, rises up and chokes him. He finds himself tugging insistently at Caleb’s shirt, the fabric rough against his hand, the skin beneath damp with sweat and twitching under his fingers.

Caleb pulls away, breathing hard, and Fjord blindly tries to follow. “Wait—Fjord, wait,” he says, turning his head so Fjord’s mouth meets the skin behind his ear. “Wait.” He pushes Fjord a step back. The moonlight highlights his hair from behind, a silver halo framing his face. With blood on his mouth and want in his eyes, he is, Fjord realizes, beautiful. “This is something you want?”

“Yes,” Fjord breathes, forgetting the accent he’s been wearing like armor for months. “Yes. Do you—”

Caleb again runs his hand down Fjord’s chest, letting it come to rest just above his belt, sparking heat into Fjord’s nerve endings. “If I did not, _mein Freund_ , you would not be standing here.” Fjord takes a heartbeat to digest the easy confidence in Caleb’s voice, a shiver of not-quite-fear running down his spine, then— “I would like very much to continue,” Caleb says in a measured tone, “but perhaps not so exposed.”

Fjord looks around them at the wide-open stern, hearing the faint chattering of the hands assigned to the small hours watch, out of sight just below them on the main deck. “Fair point,” he says, slipping back into Vandren’s familiar voice out of habit. “Captain’s quarters are still empty.”

“Well, then, lead the way.”

* * *

 

“I am remembering Zadash.”

They’re standing in the captain’s quarters, still littered with Avantika’s things. Caleb has gone out to the balcony and Fjord watches as a sudden bright flare of fire jets out from his palm, lighting the candle he’s gingerly holding out just within range. Wick flickering, he comes back inside, setting the iron candleholder on the desk in the center of the room. The image of Avantika, her silken robe falling open, flashes in Fjord’s memory, and he blinks, chasing it away with a will. “Zadash?”

“ _Ja_. At the High Richter’s. You held a sword to my neck.”

“Oh.” He summons the falchion, showering them both with droplets of seawater as it appears in his hand. The two eyes—one in the crossguard, the other in the pommel—stare outward, looking at nothing.

Caleb leans on the desk, watching him. “A little different from what happened today.”

“We can do that again, if you want.” Taking a half step forward, Fjord whips the falchion up and around, pressing the sharp blade lightly into Caleb’s neck. His eyes flash surprise, then wariness, accompanied what Fjord now recognizes as desire. “For old time’s sake.” 

There’s silence for a span of heartbeats while Caleb remains perfectly still, not moving a muscle, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on Fjord. The air thickens. The candle sends up a thin trail of smoke that catches the moonlight, turning and shimmering, a silver thread rising into darkness.

Caleb blinks, once, twice, three times. Then, without warning, he twists his neck into the blade.

Fjord, startled, gives a yell and vanishes the falchion, but not before a thin red line appears on Caleb’s skin. Caleb raises one hand to wipe at it. There’s satisfaction in his smile as he looks down at the blood on his fingers.

“What the _fuck_ , Caleb,” Fjord says, backing away. He hits the edge of the bed with the back of his thighs and sits down with a thump. “That was a hell of a move. What—”

“There is an old superstition in the Zemni Fields.” Caleb pushes off the desk and starts pulling the edges of his shirt from his pants, untucking it. “A weapon remembers the blood it has spilled.”

“And you want mine to remember,” Fjord says, watching as Caleb pulls the shirt over his head, dropping it carelessly in the puddle of moonlight pouring in from the balcony. His chest is skinny and bony, almost fragile, a bronze medallion dangling around his neck. Fjord feels a retroactive pang of anxiety at all the times Caleb has been left exposed on the battlefield. There’s a long weal from hip to shoulder; a reminder, he supposes, of Lorenzo. He can’t place the myriad smaller marks—old burns, scratches, bruises that seem to be permanent. He reaches out as Caleb moves toward him, runs his thumb over a long white scar on his hip, just to hear the soft intake of breath.

“Call it…a hello, to your demigod with the eyes.” 

Fjord huffs in amusement. “Well, you’ve sure caught its attention.” He tugs at the waistline of Caleb’s pants, pulling him closer until he’s standing between Fjord’s thighs. Fjord has to look up a little to meet his eyes, and the heat he sees there goes directly to his cock. Caleb’s arms are still wrapped in their bandages, and he begins to pick at the top one, gently unspooling the cloth. Caleb tenses, and then relaxes, his hand loose against Fjord’s shoulder.

Beneath the bandages—Fjord holds Caleb’s wrist steady with one hand and peels with the other—are more scars, white with age, crisscrossing across the inside of the forearm. One darker, longer scar cuts across them all, vertically, disappearing against the loosened bandages just above Caleb’s palm. Fjord stares for a second, and then looks up at Caleb, his heart twisting a little in his chest. Caleb’s eyes are steady, simmering, without embarrassment or concealment of any kind. His hand shifts slightly to cup the back of Fjord’s head. Driven by that low, simmering heat, Fjord presses his mouth into the skin below the inside of Caleb’s elbow, digging his teeth in just a little bit and dragging them down as he pulls the last of the wrappings from Caleb’s wrist. 

“I don’t know—” Caleb hisses through his teeth as Fjord swipes his tongue against the base of his palm before starting on the other arm “—if that is a good thing. Its awareness seems like a heavy weight to bear.”

There are matching scars on this arm, and a brand on the inside wrist, a crown and cup with three stars above them. Fjord traces the raised lines with his finger, following with his tongue, feeling the shiver as Caleb’s body reacts. “I had a dream.” He reaches forward to fumble with Caleb’s belt buckle and can’t resist pressing into the Lorenzo scar with his mouth, relishing the salt-sweat taste and the way Caleb’s hips twitch from the contact.

“Oh, yes? One of your wet dreams, as our friends like to call them?”

“Uh. Yeah, you could call it that.” Caleb’s hands comb through the hair at the base of Fjord’s neck, a smooth, repetitive motion that sends shivers down his spine. He tugs the belt free from Caleb’s pants, shoves them down to reveal skinny legs and fraying underclothes. His own pants, designed as they are to be comfortable under armor, are the work of a moment to remove. He slings them in the direction of Caleb’s discarded shirt as Caleb kicks himself free, feet bare on the darkened wood.

Caleb brings his hands down to Fjord’s shoulders and shoves, a sharp movement that catches Fjord by surprise. He hooks an arm around Caleb’s waist, feeling his weight on his bare chest as they tumble backwards. “Should I be concerned?” Caleb asks, voice low, almost a whisper, colored with a dark undercurrent of desire. His hair brushes against Fjord’s cheek. At this distance, the directness of his steel-blue gaze is irresistable.

Desire wells up in Fjord’s throat and he answers it, surging up to cover Caleb’s mouth with his own, groaning as Caleb’s thigh wedges against his cock. Caleb presses in eagerly, hungrily, his skin against Fjord’s a thousand buzzing points of heat. Their mouths meet, release, meet again, and there’s a tantalizing swipe of Caleb’s tongue against his before Caleb turns his head to bite into the tender skin behind his ear.

“There was an—an ocean full of ships.” Fjord pushes urgently at the waist of Caleb’s underclothes, the feeling of unbearable distance returning. Caleb doesn’t stop sucking a bruise into Fjord’s neck, but he does shift a little, giving Fjord the leverage he needs. “I had the power to shatter them in the water.” He maneuvers the cloth down one side, then the other, feeling the spring and release of Caleb’s cock as it brushes against his groin.

Caleb draws in a deep, shaky breath and pushes back, his forehead pressing against Fjord’s as his hips rock in little shuddering jerks.

“You filled the sky with fire.”

He leans into Caleb’s grin, burning, a sheet of flame. 

Caleb slides his hand up Fjord’s chest, above the collarbone, pressing into where the shoulder and neck meet, and pushes himself up. Fjord growls low in his throat, feeling Caleb’s thumb press into the divot just below his Adam’s apple, and reaches for him again. He’s forestalled by a bony knee in his side, and then another, as Caleb frees himself from his underclothes entirely and then goes to work on Fjord’s. Fjord tilts his head up to watch. It’s one hell of an image: Caleb, straddling his waist, leaning back with a concentrated expression to drag Fjord’s underclothes off with one hand while the other splays against Fjord’s chest. His cock, swollen with desire, glistens against his stomach; his skin in the candlelight flickers red and gold. He almost looks like a creature of fire himself. 

It’s an irresistible sight, so Fjord doesn’t even try; as Caleb grinds his ass along Fjord’s exposed cock, sending synaptic shocks up his spine, Fjord leans forward on one elbow and reaches for Caleb. He watches Caleb’s face as he rubs one thumb over the head of his cock, squeezing just a little too tightly. Caleb groans, the sound low in his throat, and thrusts into Fjord's hand in a rough, desperate motion. The friction of his ass against Fjord's cock makes Fjord shake, the air leaving his lungs in rough jerks in time with Caleb's breathing.

He can see Caleb observing him, panting, and the gaze sears through his gut. 

Then, Caleb's slipping out of his grip and moving away. Fjord huffs in surprise, scrabbles for an elbow, a wrist, his hair, anything he can reach, before he feels Caleb's breath against the inside of his thighs. He gets a hand into Caleb's hair just as Caleb, digging his fingernails into the sensitive skin just under his ass, swirls his tongue around the head of Fjords cock and then swallows him down whole. 

The pulsing embrace of Caleb's throat, the warmth of it convulsing around his cock, sends Fjord's back arching. He still has one hand tangled in Caleb's hair. The involuntary yank he gives it as he moans brings Caleb's teeth to scrape deliciously against the base of his cock, pleasure and pain intermingled. Caleb drags his mouth slowly, luxuriously, along the full length, swallowing him in deeper and deeper. Fjord clenches his hand in Caleb’s hair and hangs on.

One more long slide out, the light pinch of teeth at his tip, and the cool air against his saliva-coated cock drags an urgent whine out of his throat. Blurrily, through half-focused vision, he sees Caleb position himself above Fjord once more, his bony knees digging into Fjord’s sides. He realizes what’s happening just in time to grab Caleb’s ass, finding the stretch that his fingers have already begun. Helping Caleb spread himself wide with one hand, he reaches under the bed with the other, fumbling for the viscous, herbal-scented oil that Avantika had used on him only a few weeks before. 

The sense memory evoked by the smell as he thumbs open the bottle is quickly erased by the sight of Caleb, panting and unguarded. The vial is snatched out of his hand and Caleb, shaking with the pressure of Fjord’s slow, insistent fingers, pours it messily into his palm. There’s no finesse in the way he splatters it against Fjord’s hand, shoving his own fingers in alongside Fjord’s. The urgency is contagious; Fjord gathers some of the spilled oil and slathers it on his cock just as Caleb begins to slowly slink down.

He’d thought Caleb’s mouth was as much as he could take, but this is another order of magnitude, a fissure of white light splitting him open from pelvis to chest as Caleb, breathing harshly, lowers himself inch by painstaking inch. It’s agonizing in its slowness, and they’re both trembling when Caleb comes to rest. His teeth are clenched in concentration, and his hoarse, startled whine when Fjord rubs a thumb down the length of his cock is enough to make Fjord moan in return.

Slowly at first, gathering speed, Caleb begins to roll his hips. The motion intensifies the pressure Fjord can feel building in his groin, surging across his body in waves. Unable to hold himself back any further, he gathers himself into one powerful thrust. Caleb’s back arches, his mouth open as he gasps, reaching out his split palm towards Fjord’s.

Shaking with want, Fjord rubs his thumb along the seam, feeling the slow ooze of blood and Caleb’s heaving shudder at the contact. **CONSUME** , echoes the ever-present voice in the back of his head. He brings the hand to his mouth and rips the barely-healed cut open with his incisors. Caleb jerks in surprise, eyes closing, letting out a long, low involuntary moan. Fjord’s vision flashes white as Caleb clenches around him. There’s blood dripping onto his chin, into the hollow of his neck, running down to the sheet below him, and he brings his own hand up to repeat the process. The tear sears through his body, and he thrusts up into Caleb as their fingers interlace, cut palm to cut palm. 

Blood leaks from the cut on Caleb’s neck as he throws his head back, mouth open, teeth bared, his exposed throat flexing against the sounds he holds back as he comes. Fjord grips Caleb’s hip and thrusts up once, twice, thrice, before his vision goes blinding white. It feels like being split in half: a dam bursting, a fireball exploding, a lightning bolt striking a stormy sea.

In the aftermath, he has just enough strength in his shuddering limbs to slide Caleb off him and guide him down to his chest. Time drips and pools as they lie together, skin against skin, breathing hard. The sweat cools on their bodies. Their hands, still clasped, are sandwiched between their chests, and Fjord counts Caleb’s heartbeats against the back of his hand.

After a while—Fjord has no idea how long—Caleb heaves a sigh and rolls himself off Fjord’s chest. Fjord grimaces a little at the stickiness of fluids as they’ve dried together. He turns his head to look at Caleb’s profile—eyes closed, head tipped slightly back, his chest expanding and contracting slowly as he breathes. He gives Caleb’s hand a slight squeeze. “You good?”

Caleb, eyes still closed, makes a high-pitched, jerky sound that it takes Fjord a moment to recognize as laughter. Fjord waits a few seconds, faintly concerned, before Caleb gathers himself enough to say, “Yes. I am good.” He turns to look at Fjord with that piercing steel-blue stare, solemn again, their knees brushing together. “Are you?”

“More than good.” He realizes, belatedly, that he dropped Vandren's accent at some point; he’s not sure when. He can’t quite bring himself to care. “Wow.”

“ _Ja._ ”

He levers himself up, groaning, and lets Caleb’s hand go finally. The congealing blood on their palms sticks briefly before separating. On Avantika’s desk, the candle sputters, and the moonlight slanting in from the balcony has begun to fade as the moon sets. Caleb pushes himself to a sitting position behind him, rubbing one hand through his sweat-soaked hair. “This is quite the mess.” 

Fjord looks down at himself. There’s dried blood streaking down his chest, mingling with sweat and semen on his stomach and groin. The sheet is ruined, and Caleb looks wrecked, mouth swollen and skin flushed. Fjord instinctually reaches to cup Caleb’s cheek with his palm, pressing their mouths together, long and soft. He can feel Caleb’s fingers gripping his thigh, hard enough to bruise in the morning.

As they separate, Caleb looks away.

Sighing, Fjord gets to his feet, scanning the cabin for—there, a rope coiled neatly in a corner. Good. He grabs Caleb’s wrist, pulling him up as well. It’s the work of a few moments to blow out the candle and bundle the sheet around the candleholder. Caleb watches, leaning against the desk, as he weighs the length of rope in his palm. “What are you doing, Fjord?”

“Figured the ocean was our best chance at getting clean.”

It feels like a dream as he unspools the rope, tying one end of it to the balcony's railing and dropping the other end to dangle in the water below; as he helps Caleb make his way painstakingly down (to no avail; Caleb loses his grip fully ten feet above the surface of the water and splashes, spluttering and grasping for the end of the rope); as he follows, hand over hand, feeling the sting of the hemp against his cut palm. They wipe themselves clean with the edges of the sheet before Fjord wraps it tightly around the candlestick and lets it sink out of sight, a white blotch diminishing slowly into the depths. Caleb summons Frumpkin. The octopus swims around them in lazy circles as Caleb spread-eagles himself on his back, cradled by the water, holding onto the rope, gazing up towards the stars. It's reminiscent of the last peace they had, on the beach outside Nicodranas.

When they finally, laboriously, climb back up to the captain's quarters, Caleb—still naked—flops down on the bed, closing his eyes. Fjord cautiously settles next to him, keeping a few inches of distance between them. He's gratified to feel Caleb's nose press into the nape of his neck as their breathing slows in sync. The ocean's gentle movement and the soft whooshing of Caleb's breath rock him to sleep.

* * *

 

When he wakes in the morning, Caleb is gone, leaving behind only the indentation of his body and one long, dark streak of rusty brown from his palm. The early light of dawn is in the sky, the water’s reflection rippling on the ceiling. He estimates it might be six, maybe seven in the morning.

He doesn't particularly want to be seen exiting the captain's quarters at this hour of the morning, so instead he dives off the balcony. The cool water feels refreshing against his skin as he swims around the side of the ship. He eyes the distance as he swims through the water; when he feels he's gotten close enough, he summons the falchion and uses the magic of the Summer's Dance to teleport up to the deck.

Only a few hands are on deck at this hour, none of them seemingly taken aback by his sudden appearance—it's the beginning of the dawn watch, and they've become accustomed to weird magic from their employers already. He nods a greeting and makes his way back to his own quarters.

When he enters, dripping, Caduceus is in the process of fastening his belt around his waist. "Oh, good morning. Good day for a swim?"

“Always is," Fjord says, remembering just in time to slip back into Vandren's voice.

“Yeah. Yeah, that's good." Caduceus' voice is warm and grounding, as always. "I'm gonna go see what I can scrounge up for breakfast. There were a few spices left in the mess last I looked."

“Sounds good."

Caduceus makes his way out. Fjord dries himself off and straps into his armor before he follows, feeling the strangeness of the night slip away as his posture is forced into place by the leather.

In the mess, Caleb's there already, stroking his octopus as he talks quietly with Nott. His eyes flicker up to meet Fjord's, eyebrows lifting slightly, before he turns his attention back to Nott. Fjord doesn't pause, grabbing a hunk of hardtack instead of the magical food that Jester and Caduceus have been creating and heading out again. He passes close enough behind Caleb to brush his hand along Caleb's shoulders. There's a pause in Caleb's words, but he continues on, heading up onto the main deck of the ship.

Orly's at the helm, holding it steady and peering towards the east. He climbs the stairs to the poop deck, calling out, "Any sight of land?"

“Nn-no, nothin'. 'Mm-m-m-ah'm thinkin' it'll be a d-day or so. Let'cha know when I see it."

“Sounds about right to me."

He stays for a few minutes, keeping Orly company, before he makes his way back down to the mainmast. He can just barely make up the shape of a figure high above him. "Stand down, crewman, I'll take the crows' watch," he yells up, cupping his hands around his mouth.

“Aye, aye, captain," comes the distant response, and one of the hired hands comes scrambling down the shrouds, a spyglass hung around his neck. Fjord holds out his hand. The crewman pulls the spyglass from around his neck and hands it over.

“Thank you, crewman."

“Of course, captain."

The deck recedes below him as he climbs up into the shrouds. It's a familiar feeling, muscle memory from years and years of being on the sea. The crows' nest comes closer and closer until he can grab the edge of it and muscle his way onto the wooden boards.

It's peaceful up here. The voices of the crew diminishes below him, coalescing into a low hum that merges with the murmur of the sea. He opens his newly scarred hand, contemplating the jagged cut along the palm, and reflects on the night just passed. 

Electrifying? _Extremely_. Satisfying? Of course. Recurring? Perhaps.

Portentous? 

There’s no way to know.

The memory of the dream flashes before his mind's eye, and for a moment the sea before him is filled with shattered ships and cast-off sails under a flaming sky.

He leans into the wind's bite, eyes fixed on the distant, sea-grey horizon.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Shoutout to my incredible, brilliant, beloved wife [PeopleCoveredInFish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peoplecoveredinfish) for being my Dick Consultant™, to the amazing Ezra [goodshipophelia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodshipophelia) for beta-ing, and to my long-suffering TL for putting up with me yelling BLOOD PACT at them every few hours for most of a week.
> 
> In the true Dungeons & Dragons spirit, I rolled a couple of checks for Fjord and Caleb over the course of this fic. Most notably, Caleb rolled an athletics check with advantage (Fjord's help) to get down that rope; he rolled a natural 1 and a 5. Typical. Also, Fjord is real bad at insight checks.
> 
> Errata:
> 
>   * Fjord doesn't notice, but at the moment that Caleb cuts his neck on the falchion, both of the eyes shift to look at Caleb.
>   * Caleb's laugh near the end is the same as the one he does near the end of Ep18, after he's told Beau and Nott his story.
>   * I made up the Zemnian superstition and the brand (meant to represent the Academy).
> 



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